Follow the yellow brick road

On Wednesday morning last week, many Trinis were busy delivering their opinion of Government’s mystifying poll in their most acidic home-spun utterance, the steups. Yet several others were mockingly remarking that perhaps Govern-ment had sent the Market and Opinion Research International (MORI) pollsters to posh, gated communities and/or to Tobago.

Me, I had no breath or time for comments spiced with disdain or for local expressions of cynicism: I had pressing business. I was on a quest to track down the 2000 plus persons interviewed by MORI, the ones who told the British pollsters they felt very safe in their communities, safe in their own home alone after dark and safe walking alone after dark. When I found them, I intended to ask, no beg one and all of these privileged citizens to let me come live with them in their sliver of paradise. I was getting ready to move to Moriland. I had already decided to sell my house in “hotspot” Diego Martin, located in the recently dubbed “Wild, Wild West,” to the first taker. I’d packed a large knapsack with the barest of necessities - clothes, food, a tent and a sleeping bag. I would tell the Morilanders that I didn’t need a room at any of their inns, just a secure piece of floor for me and my sleeping bag in a Moriland abode, or a spot in a yard where I could pitch my tent.

I longed to get to this enchanted place where there were no bandits, murderers or kidnappers lurking with guns, waiting to rob, kill or snatch their prey. I wanted to live in this spot of heaven in Trinidad and Tobago where people if they died at all, expired peacefully with their families at their side quietly bidding them a tearful farewell and not by the piercing bullet or brutal chop while their wives and children screamed bloody murder. I could imagine exactly what Moriland was like. It was a place where parents read their children bedtime stories, families repented every evening, thanked God for Moriland and then after saying their Good Night John Boy’s, slipped into bed without having to worry if someone had left a window or door open through which murderous thieves could slither in. There were also no alarms to set, or dogs to let out in Moriland. No one had ever heard of burglar-proof bars.

The children of Moriland were the happiest and brightest in the country. They were literate and numerate thinkers because theirs was the most successful education system in Trinidad and Tobago. They did not have to sit SEA exams; their schools were not falling down or slipping into rivers.  Teachers were respected and thus, highly compensated for their work. They were always on the job. When the students of Moriland completed their requisite five years of secondary school they were all guaranteed work in their community as their fathers and mothers before them. In the afternoon after returning from school on buses provided by Moriland’s council, there was always a snack waiting for these children at home — food was sold for a song in Moriland’s groceries. The children of Moriland were then sent outside to play until it was time for bed. Though there were many parks in their community, cricket and football were street games because no one drove faster than five miles per hour in Moriland and indeed, not a soul could recall a tragic accident in the community’s history.

At night, the brightly lit streets of Moriland belonged to young couples who are home from their fulfilling and well-paid jobs employed their leisure time strolling hand in hand. On the rare occasions that TTEC cut the community’s power supply, the Morilanders — who were always given a month’s notice — held a barbecue in the main park. Many of the young people opted still to go for walks in the dark streets, as this was considered more romantic and safer than standing close to a fiery charcoal pit. The adults of Moriland were as contented as their offspring. They worked in their district and were richly rewarded for their community spirit and effort. They all drove cars, none of which carried security devices and which they parked in the wide, traffic-free, smooth streets of Moriland. Car thieves? What? Why? When these working men and women came home from work, they first had a rejuvenating shower courtesy WASA’s never-ending jet stream. They then liked to sit in their front porches, sipping cocktails, discussing how horrible the news was about the crime in other parts of the country, how lucky they were that there were no criminals in Moriland, that their streets were safe.

The pet subject of discussion in Moriland though was politics for Morilanders were extremely proud of their democratic traditions. Morilanders liked to talk about their elections, which were annual and which were free and fair. They boasted there was no voter or house padding.  There was a right to recall anyone slacking on the job. There was no fight for ascendancy, resources or power among the ethnic groups that made up the community. Rights belonged to everyone regardless of creed, race, gender, class, age or sexuality.  And politicians and citizens alike believed in accountability, in consulting the people of Moriland before making significant decisions. No one knew the meaning of corruption, kickbacks or abuse of office.  There were no brawls in the legislature and its public gallery was always packed with citizens of all ages keen to listen to the logical, intellectual debates of their representatives. Yes, life was good in Moriland.

But how would I find the place? I didn’t think that anyone in the Government would tell me where it was, if they knew where it was at all. Nor did I believe that Morilanders would advertise the site of their magical neighbourhood because then they’d have an influx of “crime” refugees from other parts of Trinidad and Tobago. This was indeed a conundrum. A day later I figured it out. I knew precisely where to locate Moriland on the TT map. I’d find it right next to 2020 town.
suz@itrini.com